Retribution
by enigste1
Summary: Someone is trying to make Don suffer. Can he find out who it is before it's too late?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with the show 'Numb3rs' or its creation. I have merely committed the virtual felony of kidnapping the characters and forcing them to enact my own plot against their wishes. I will keep them unlawfully confined until such time as I figure out where this tale is going. After that, they're on their own.

Chapter 1:

Don hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair with a happy sigh. Another tough case to be packed into a banker's box and marked 'solved'. The Los Angeles Field Office of the FBI was racking up quite a reputation for closing difficult investigations. He laced his fingers behind his head and allowed himself the luxury of a few moments without movement.

"Don," Charlie said as he came around the corner of Don's little cubicle. Don gazed at his younger brother complacently. Thanks to him, another violent criminal was behind bars. He could put up with the interruption for his sake. Just this once.

"What's up, Charlie?" Don asked, not changing his position.

Charlie put down the mug he'd been carrying. "I just wanted to let you know that I've finished with my end of the paperwork, and I was going to ask David to drive me back to school. I've got papers there I have to get before I go home."

Don let his hands fall into his lap, but didn't sit up. "Okay," he replied. "Do me a favor and let Dad know I'll be dropping by after, okay?" He reached for the cup.

"You don't want that," Charlie said, snatching out from under his brother's fingers. "It's herbal tea."

"I don't know how you can drink that stuff," Don scoffed, once again lifting his hands behind his head. He watched in disgust as Charlie polished off the tea and set the cup back on the desk. "It tastes foul. Give me a good strong cup of java anytime."

Charlie swallowed. "Ordinarily I'd argue with you. Coffee is very bad for the blood pressure. Not to mention the side effects – being jittery and unable to sleep…"

"For you, maybe," Don put in.

"But this time," Charlie continued as though Don hadn't spoken. "I have to agree – this particular type of tea does taste a little… off." He glared at the cup as though it had uttered a personal insult.

Don laughed. "Okay, Charlie. You'd better go catch David before he takes off for the night and leaves you stranded."

"Later," Charlie tossed back as he disappeared around the corner.

Don stood abruptly and called over the partition, "Don't forget to tell Dad!"

Charlie glanced back as he hurried out of the room behind David and waved to show he'd understood. Don watched as his brother followed the other agent to the elevator and stepped inside. After seeing the doors slide shut, he once again settled into his chair.

"Do you always do that?"

Don glanced up to see Megan Reeves standing beside his chair with her arms folded, an amused expression on her face. He turned his chair around to face her properly. "Do what?" he asked innocently.

Megan leaned up against the cubicle's wall. "Watch Charlie until he's out of your line of vision," she elaborated. "Heck of a guardian complex you've got."

"It's a sibling thing," Don said as he reached for a file on his desk. "You had to be there." He opened the file only to snap it shut abruptly as he rounded on her. "And why are you profiling _me_?"

Megan shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's what I do. And in your case, it's highly entertaining."

Don broke into a grin. "Get the heck out of here, Agent Reeves. Go home before I find you some real work to do."

"Hey, I don't need to be told twice," she said, holding up her hands. "I'm gone." She smiled and waved goodbye as Don flipped the file open again and leaned back in his chair. Sketching a casual wave at her retreating figure, Don began perusing the contents, simple daily reports that nevertheless had to be read and initialled before he, too, could depart.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Forty-five minutes later, Don had signed his last piece of paper. He stood and stretched, feeling the last of his tension drain away. The past few weeks had been difficult, but he was finally able to take a break from the stress and _relax_. Smiling, Don thought of the supper he knew his father Alan would have waiting for him when he got to his – no, Charlie's – house. He shook his head at the memory of Charlie relating the look on Alan's face when he told him the 'mystery buyer' for the house was in fact Charlie himself. He would have loved to have been a fly on the wall…

His smile quickly dissolved into a frown as the telephone on his desk began to ring. _Would it never let up – even for a minute?_ Sighing, Don dropped the sport coat he had been about to put on into the chair and reached for the shrilling instrument.

"Eppes."

The voice on the line was businesslike. "Personal call for you, Agent Eppes. Caller refused to identify himself. Says he's a CI." She waited.

Don thought rapidly, unable to call to mind any particular reason for a confidential informant of his to be calling at this hour. After a moment, he mentally shrugged and said, "Put him through." There was an almost inaudible click, and Don heard the operator say, "Agent Eppes is on the line." There was another click as she disconnected herself from the call.

"Eppes," Don repeated.

"Special Agent Eppes, this is Jimmy," came a scratchy-sounding voice. Don recognized the grating tone as that of a man they sometimes used when tracking ex-cons. Jimmy could be trusted – to try and weasel money out of people by petty scams and trickery – but his information was usually pretty reliable.

"What's up, Jimmy?" Don said, letting a note of irritation creep into his voice. "I was about to leave." He glanced up to see David re-entering the office. At Don's puzzled look, David strode over to his desk, picked something up and waved it. His sunglasses. Don refocused his attention on the snitch's call.

"I ran into a guy who's got a mean on for ya," Jimmy rasped. He was a heavy smoker and it showed.

"What are you talking about?" Don's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What 'guy'?"

David, hearing the tone of his boss' conversation, changed direction and headed for Don's area.

"There's this guy, see. Says he's gonna getcha. You been pretty fair to me, Agent Eppes. Thought I'd give you a heads up, no charge." Jimmy broke off and Don could hear muffled coughing. After a moment, the snitch came back on the line. "So anyways, I heard him goin' on about how mad you made 'im… he was drinkin' in the bar, see?"

Don looked up at David, who was now standing next to the desk. "Go on," he prompted.

"He wasn' drunk or nothin'," the greasy little man continued. "Then he jus' kinda walked up t'me an' started talkin' like he knew me or somethin'."

"What did he say?"

"Well, first he asked me m'name, and I told him, 'Jimmy'. Then he asked me if I knew ya." Jimmy broke off in another fit of coughing.

Don, beginning to get exasperated, looked at David and rolled his eyes. At David's questioning look, Don mouthed 'Jimmy'. David's expression changed to one of commiseration, and he leaned up against the partition much as Megan had done an hour before.

After the coughing seemed to have abated, Don asked, "Jimmy, what did he say? Did he say me, specifically?"

Jimmy cleared his throat a few times before replying. "Ya, ya – that's what I said, din' I? He asked me if I knew Don Eppes, the FBI guy."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Well, o'course I din' tell 'im I _know_ ya. Whatcha think, I'm stupid?" Don had to consciously force himself to stop grinding his teeth in frustration. He knew too well how the guy would clam up if someone tried to make him hurry. After a short pause, Jimmy continued, "Anyways, he jus' looked at me when I said that – like he knew diff'rent. Kinda spooked me for a sec. Then he leaned over. Got real close, y'know what I mean?" Without waiting for Don's response, he went on. "He leans in real close an' says, all quiet and serious-like, 'You tell Agent Eppes I'm gonna get him _good_. You tell him I'm gonna call him. Tonight. On his cell. And he'd better answer, or he's gonna regret it.'" This was a long speech for Jimmy, and once again he broke into a coughing fit.

Don felt for the little man's declining health, but he was starting to feel the tension creeping back into his weary body, and he didn't like it a bit. "Jimmy!" he called into the phone, hoping he was loud enough to be heard. "Jimmy, do you know this guy?"

Jimmy came back on, sounding choked up. "Naw. Naw, if I'da known him, I'da toldja that, Agent."

"I know you would, Jimmy," Don said. He reached for his pen. "What did he look like? Did he tell you anything else?" He started hunting for paper. Seeing a legal pad under Charlie's cup, he swiftly set it aside and drew the pad toward him, sitting down in his chair. The jacket was forgotten.

"Naw, it went down jus' like I toldja. He walked off after that." Jimmy paused, then said, "Now, what he looked like? Well, he was big, for sure. Big – like he's been pumpin' up, y'know what I mean?"

"I know, Jimmy," Don replied, writing furiously. "What else?"

"We-ell," the snitch drawled. "He was tall, too. Tall as you, even. And he was pale."

"Did he look like a con?" Don asked. David moved around the partition to peer over Don's shoulder at the writing tablet. Don's writing was almost illegible.

"Mighta been, mighta been," Jimmy agreed. "But what I meant was – he had pale hair, and pale eyes too. Kinda creepy-lookin'."

David watched Don scratch 'blond hair – blue eyes – pale skin' on the paper. His hand stilled as he waited for more information. It wasn't motionless for long.

"Oh, yeah!" Jimmy said abruptly. "He had hisself a nasty scar, too. Went right down the side of his face. Like in that movie, y'know what I mean?"

"'Scarface'?" Don asked, wishing he would stop repeating that phrase. It really got on a person's nerves after a while.

"Ya, ya, that's the one!" Jimmy said triumphantly. "Couldn't 'member it, m'self."

"So he had a scar running down the side of his face," Don repeated. "Anything else, Jimmy?" He scribbled the description on the paper.

"Nope, that's it," the snitch replied. "Hope it helps ya."

"Thanks, Jimmy," Don said, laying the pen down. "I won't forget this."

"Aw, nevermind, Agent. You done me a good turn once or twice, I think."

Don heard a click, then a dial tone. He reached over and placed the handset on its cradle. He looked at David.

"What was that all about?" David asked.

"I'm not sure," Don admitted, tearing off the piece of paper. "Let's see what we can find on anyone I might have put away that answers this description. See if any of them are out now." He stood and glanced wryly at his now severely crumpled sport coat. Dismissing the jacket as beyond hope, he walked over to the area where the tech analysts worked. Unclipping his cell phone from its customary spot at his waist, he handed it to the agent seated behind the desk. "Craig, get this hooked up to a trace and recorder. I'm expecting an unpleasant phone call." Don started to turn away, then stopped as he thought of something else. "Oh, and put it in the hands-free, so we can all hear what this guy says, if he calls." The tech nodded, and Don turned to David. "Jimmy said some guy approached him in a bar. He told Jimmy my name and ordered him to tell me he'd be calling."

"How would he have gotten your number?" David asked. Don snapped his fingers.

"Good idea! I need to make a list of everyone who might have my cell number." He strode back to his desk and picked up the pad and pen. "It won't be a big list. I haven't given it to many people, and it's blocked." He began writing as he spoke. "David, I know you were going to go home, but…" He shook his head. "I could really use you."

David slipped off his suit coat and slung it over the back of a nearby chair. "I'm not going anywhere. Give me that description." Without a pause, Don tipped up the pad he was writing on to give David access to the piece of paper in his left hand. Grabbing it, David glanced at the writing briefly before saying, "You know, Don – a list of the guys you've put away is going to be pretty long. Even with a description."

Don looked up at David for a moment before going back to his notes. "That may be, but right now it's the only option."

David nodded once before heading for his own desk.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Much the same as previous one, with a piece of advice for anyone who tries the virtual kidnap thing: keep your eye on Agent Eppes. If he says he needs to go to the washroom, tell him to wait. He's _sneaky_.

Chapter 2:

"David, what have you got?" Don asked as he strode over to where the other man was working. He reached him just as the handsome agent hung up the phone.

"Your case files are pretty extensive, Don," he began by way of apology. "It's going to take some time for Records to get them all together."

Don heaved an exasperated sigh. "I know. This is taking too long. This guy could phone any minute."

David stood and the two men made their way to the techs' station. "I called Megan and Colby – they're on their way back."

Don simply nodded and folded himself into a nearby chair. David looked at him with some concern. After a moment, Don leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know," he mused. "We _could_ be using that filter thing Charlie talked about on that judge's case. What was it called?"

"A Bayesian filter," David supplied.

Don let his foot drop to the floor and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, that." He paused. "It might help narrow down the list of suspects – when we get them."

Just then, a persistent ringing filled the air. Don stood abruptly as the technician, Craig, nodded at him. Both agents stepped closer to the cell phone standing in its base on the desk, and Don gave Craig the signal to answer.

"Eppes," he announced cautiously.

"Special Agent Don Eppes," came a low voice over the loudspeaker. "Do you know who this is?"

Don glanced at David, hoping to see a glimmer of recognition. David merely shrugged. "No, I'm sorry," he replied. "I don't remember you."

"That's pretty typical." The comment was preceded by a short bark of humorless laughter. "You feds mess around with people's lives all the time without a thought to what the consequences might be. Well, I'm going to show you."

"Show me? What are you talking about?" Don asked. He looked up from the phone to see Megan and Colby striding through the doorway. Motioning them over, he put a finger to his lips for quiet.

"You, Agent Eppes, are particularly single-minded when it comes to the people you encounter," the man continued heatedly. "You go blundering around, thinking you're some kind of _hotshot_…" Here he broke off, seemingly to regain his composure. "But I digress. You wanted to know what I was talking about?"

"Yeah," Don said, watching his fellow agents to gauge their reactions. David was concentrating, apparently trying to place the caller's voice. Colby had moved around the desk and was examining Craig's computer screen, where the tech was attempting to trace the call. Megan had seated herself in Don's abandoned chair, listening intently.

"I am talking about peace of mind, Agent Eppes," the caller stated coldly. "Gaining peace of mind for me, losing it for you."

"Explain yourself!" Don exploded, slamming his hand on the desktop. Everyone jumped and David put a restraining hand on his boss' shoulder. Harsh laughter filled the room.

"Temper, temper! Don't go losing your professional detachment just yet, Eppes. We're only just getting acquainted." The voice on the other end paused. "Perhaps we can talk more when you've calmed down. I suggest you have yourself a nice hot cup of herbal tea and spend a few minutes with some prayer beads. Might do you good."

"What…" Don began. The speaker hummed loudly as the call was disconnected. He looked at the tech questioningly, who shook his head and pulled off his headphones.

"Sorry, Don," Craig said apologetically. "He was using some kind of digital scrambler. There's no way I could triangulate the call."

Don nodded grimly and turned to his team. "Any ideas? Megan?"

She shook her head. "From what I caught, this guy is pretty cocky, highly intelligent and very dangerous. I'll need to listen to the recording to pick up the parts I missed."

"Okay," Don said, looking at David. "What do you think?"

"I couldn't place the voice, although he may have had a southern accent." He, too, shook his head. "Sounded almost like he tried to get rid of it, but it's still there."

"What did he mean by 'herbal tea' and 'prayer beads'?" Colby spoke up suddenly. "It didn't make sense to me."

Don's eyes drifted from Colby's puzzled expression to the office in general, considering. Almost of its own volition, his gaze snapped to the blue mug sitting on the corner of his desk. He felt an icy sensation settle in the pit of his stomach. "Charlie," he whispered soundlessly.

David, following his stare, asked, "What is it? Have you thought of something?" He was startled by the expression on Don's face as the senior agent turned slowly to look at him.

"Charlie," he said, more loudly this time. "He told me his tea tasted strange. Just before he left with you." Suddenly galvanized into action, Don practically sprinted around the tech station and grabbed the vessel from his desk. "Colby! Get the dregs of this analysed right away!" Colby took the cup and disappeared through the doorway. Don turned to the other two FBI agents and barked commands. "David, get those case files up here and start going through them. We have to figure out who this psycho is. Megan." She stood and waited for his next order. "You come with me." He reached down and grabbed his rumpled jacket from the seat of the chair. Rushing back to Craig's desk, he snatched up his cell phone and practically raced out of the room.

"Where are we going?" She asked, hurrying to catch up. They both headed for the elevators. Don jabbed the 'down' button several times before answering. Flipping open his cell phone, he began dialling rapidly. "Charlie's. I think that sicko might have put something in the tea." He muttered impatiently as he waited for his brother to pick up.

"Hello?" It wasn't Charlie's voice on the other end.

"Dad?" Don asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you doing answering Charlie's phone?"

"He put it on to charge before he went to bed, why?" the older Eppes inquired.

"Is he still awake, do you know?" The elevator doors finally slid open, and the two agents stepped inside. Megan pushed the button for the parking garage.

Alan snorted in disgust. "I certainly hope not. He's got classes in the morning."

Don glanced at his watch, surprised at the late hour. "Listen, Dad, I don't want to tick you off or anything, but I need to talk to Charlie right away."

There was a pause on the other end, then Alan sighed, "Okay, Don. Hang on." Don heard the unmistakeable sound of the phone being set on the countertop. He quickly took the phone away from his ear and extended the antenna. FBI cell phones got good reception, due the top-of-the-line technology they required, but they were still no match for an elevator. Putting the unit back to his ear, he strained to listen for sounds of his father returning, hopefully with a sleepy math genius in tow.

The elevator doors opened, and Don and Megan quickly rushed to the regulation SUV parked nearby. They had just climbed in and pulled on their seatbelts when Don heard someone coming back to the phone.

"Don?"

"I'm here, Dad," Don replied with a sense of foreboding.

"Charlie's sound asleep. I couldn't wake him up." Alan hesitated and then asked, "Is it really important? I could try again, but I'd rather not. I think he's coming down with 'flu or something."

Don turned the key and the engine roared to life. "What makes you say that, Dad?"

"Well, he seems to have a bit of a fever," the older man explained.

"Dad," Don said, shifting the transmission into drive. "I'm coming over. Now. I'll be there in twenty minutes." He snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the seat. The big truck leaped forward and it gained the parkade's exit quickly. As they reached the ramp to the ground-level streets, Don took the turn on two wheels. Megan didn't say a word about his erratic driving, gripping the handle by her head firmly and bracing her feet on the floorboards.

Once out in the open air, Don reached down and flipped on the emergency lights and siren. Noticing the comparative emptiness of the street, Don muttered to himself, "Make that ten."


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Sadly, I have no affiliation whatsoever with Numb3rs. I'll have to let the characters go soon, though. They're getting entirely too inventive in planning their escape. If one of them managed to get away, I'd be in hot water indeed.

Retribution Ch.3:

Alan disconnected the call thoughtfully and placed Charlie's cell phone back on the counter. He stared at it for a moment, replaying the conversation with his eldest son in his head. After a moment's indecision, he turned and made his way back up the stairs to Charlie's room. Opening the door soundlessly, he watched as the young man stirred in his sleep. He had just about made up his mind to let him alone when Charlie let out a low moan. Alan stepped into the room and knelt beside the bed. Placing a hand on Charlie's forehead, he was shocked to find it hot and dry. Truly alarmed now, Alan put both hands on Charlie's shoulders and shook him gently.

"Charlie, wake up," he said softly. Getting no response, he shook a little harder. "Charlie!" He raised his voice, not bothering to disguise the tinge of panic that crept into it. "Charlie, son, wake up! Wake _up_, Charlie!"

Charlie tossed his head for a moment before coming around. Seeing this, Alan flipped on the bedside lamp. Charlie looked at him through glassy eyes, his face flushed. He swallowed a couple times before managing to whisper, "Dad?"

"Charlie," Alan said, panic mounting, "You're burning up, son. You've got a fever. Do you want a drink of water?"

The young mathematician regarded his father for a second and then a blank look passed over his face.

"Charlie?"

Without warning, Charlie flung back the covers and launched himself out of bed. His hand clamped firmly over his mouth, Charlie made it to the bathroom just before he became violently ill. Alan followed and stood in the doorway, concern etched on his features. After a few minutes with no sign of letup, he said, "I'm calling an ambulance." He turned and hurried down the stairs, leaving Charlie crouched over the toilet bowl. At the bottom, he grabbed the portable phone and was just about to dial when Don and Megan burst through the front door.

"Dad!" Don said breathlessly. "Is Charlie still in bed?"

Alan demanded, "Don, what the hell is going _on_? What's wrong with your brother?"

Don glanced at Megan before replying. "I'm not sure - maybe nothing. Why? What happened?"

"I was about to call an ambulance," Alan said heatedly, gesturing with the phone still in his hand. "After you called, I got worried, so I went and woke him up. He barely made it to the bathroom in time, he's so sick."

"Dad," Don placed his hands on his father's shoulders. "I'm sorry, but…" He glanced at Megan. "We think Charlie may have been poisoned."

"Wh- what?" Alan faltered. "Poisoned? How? With what?"

Megan spoke. "Mr. Eppes, we think Charlie may have drank something. We don't know what it was yet, but it might be the reason he's sick now."

Don turned to her. "Megan, stay with my dad and call the ambulance. I'm going to check on Charlie." He faced Alan and said, "He'll be okay, Dad," before heading for the stairs. Megan took the phone from Alan's limp grasp and dialed 9-1-1. Don started up the staircase just as she began speaking to the emergency operator.

Suddenly there was a resounding crash from the second floor. Don hesitated only a second before racing up the stairs, his father now directly behind him. Both men called desperately as they gained the upper hallway. Don skidded to a stop in the open bathroom doorway, causing the older Eppes to crash into him.

From the look of the room, Charlie had attempted to wash his face and blacked out. The water in the sink was still running, objects from the top of the vanity had been swept to the floor, and there was a wet washcloth lying on the edge of the sink. The mathematician himself was in a crumpled heap in front of the tub, unconscious.

"Charlie!" Don cried, galvanized into action. He dashed to his brother's side and turned him over. Alan entered the bathroom more slowly, mechanically turning off the tap as he passed. Don checked his brother's vital signs and was reassured to find a faint pulse, although it was fast and irregular. He placed his hand on Charlie's face.

"He's burning up!" He looked up at Alan. "How long has he been like this?"

"He was okay when he came home," Alan replied. "He didn't eat much for supper. Said he had an upset stomach."

Don grabbed the cloth from the sink and folded it before placing it on Charlie's brow. Looking back over his shoulder, he noticed Megan standing in the doorway.

"Rescue's on its way," she said. "I told them it was a poisoning, and they're prepared."

"Good," Don nodded. To Alan, he said, "Dad, take one of those towels and get it wet, will you? We've got to try to cool him off."

Alan grabbed a towel from a nearby rack and threw it into the tub. Stepping over Charlie's still form, he turned the bathtub faucet on full, drenching the fabric in seconds. After wringing it out slightly he handed it to Don, then pulled another off a shelf and threw it in the tub, too.

Don placed the towel on Charlie's torso, instantly soaking his thin t-shirt. Charlie shuddered, but didn't regain consciousness. Don lifted his brother's head and put the second damp towel underneath. He picked up the washcloth and felt it, then handed it to his father, saying, "I don't know if it's helping, but I can't think of what else to do." Alan took the cloth and held it under the stream of water. He handed it back, barely wrung out. As Don reached for it, he glanced at his father's face, startled by what he saw there. Alan's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. A siren could be heard in the distance.

"Hey, Dad," said Don, his own vision beginning to blur. "It'll be okay." The older man simply nodded and turned to shut off the tap.

Megan cleared her throat, startling them both. "I'm going to go wait for rescue downstairs, okay?" she asked.

Don barely looked at her. "Good idea. Send them up here." She nodded once and disappeared from the doorway. Don refocused his attention on Charlie, noticing for the first time a shallow cut on his forehead. Picking up a corner of the washcloth, he gently dabbed away the blood, saying softly, "C'mon, buddy. Wake up."

"Don," Alan said. Don slowly lifted his eyes to meet his father's direct gaze. "Tell me this has nothing to do with you. With a case you're working on."

Don looked down at Charlie, unable to answer. Alan spoke again, more urgently. "Tell me, Don! Tell me if this is something you brought your brother in to help you with, that got him…" he broke off. The noise of the siren, growing in volume, suddenly stopped.

"Dad," Don shook his head. "I don't know what happened. I don't know who did this." He paused and took a deep breath. Expelling it slowly, he finally looked up, deliberately masking his inner emotions. "But I can promise you this - my whole team is on this case, and we _will_ find who did it. And when we do," his voice went flat, "Whoever it was will pay dearly." He stood as two paramedics hurried into the room, efficiently taking control of the situation. They carried bags of equipment and a long spinal board, the latter of which they slipped under Charlie's prone form almost immediately. One of the men glanced up at Don, then Alan. "Can either of you tell us what he ingested?"

"No," Don replied. He watched as they went back to work, checking Charlie's vitals and starting intravenous lines. They had him strapped to the board and ready to move in less than two minutes. Each shouldering a bag, they stooped, picked up the board at either end and expertly maneuvered out of the small space, experience showing in every move. Somewhat comforted by the show of efficiency, Alan let out a sigh and laid a hand on Don's shoulder. "I'm going to go with him," he said quietly.

Nodding, Don replied, "I'll be right behind you."

Downstairs, the paramedics had Charlie strapped onto a stretcher and were rapidly wheeling him out to the waiting ambulance. As soon as he was loaded in, one climbed in to sit beside the stretcher while the other helped Alan step up into the vehicle. Slamming the doors shut, the second medic raced around the side of the unit and hopped into the driver's seat. As the ambulance roared away, lights and sirens going full force, Don turned to Megan.

"Did David call?" he asked.

Shaking her head, she replied, "Granger doesn't have anything from the lab yet, either. I checked."

Don made for the open door, saying, "We're following the ambulance to the hospital. When we get there, I want you to go back to the office and go through that tape - find out everything you can about this guy." He stopped to lock the front door behind them. "Help David go through those files and see if you can pick out likely candidates."

Climbing into the truck, they mechanically fastened their seatbelts and closed the doors, each thinking the same thing: finding this guy would be like searching for the proverbial needle. Without something more to go on, he could very well slip through their fingers, leaving him free to strike again at whomever he thought was important to Don.

Don turned the key viciously in the ignition, venting his frustration on the vehicle's starter. Seeing Megan's sidelong look, he slammed the transmission into gear and the big SUV once more leaped into the street.

"We'll get him, Don," she said firmly, hoping the conviction in her voice got through to him. His ice-cold demeanor worried her. When he didn't respond, she looked directly at him and repeated, "_We'll get him_. We're all working on this."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. After a moment, he nodded. Megan faced the street again and added, "We'll also look into how he managed to get whatever that was into the office." Don finally tore his eyes from the road and looked at her fully, his mouth open in surprise.

"Well didn't you wonder?" she said defensively. "It's not a cafeteria in there, it's the FBI office. It's not like he could waltz in and out without there being a record of it somewhere. Even your brother…" she trailed off, unsure of whether to finish the thought. Don did it for her.

"Even my brother needs identification." He sighed and nodded his head. "You're right, Megan. I should have thought of that."

"If it'll make you feel better," she replied with a small smile, "I'll tell everyone it was your idea."

Don did a double take and then smiled despite himself. Some of the tension seemed to leave his shoulders. He chuckled softly and said, "Yeah, you do that."

Upon reaching the hospital, Don jumped out and Megan slid over. He turned to her and said, "I'll have my phone off, so I'll call in about half an hour." He hesitated, then added, "Thanks, Megan."

"You're welcome," she replied, fastening her belt. "Good luck."

"You too," he called as she pulled away. He paused for a moment to power off his cell phone, then hurried through the emergency doors. He found his father waiting just inside the entrance, the tension he was feeling evident in every movement.

"Don! There you are!" the older Eppes exclaimed.

"Hey Dad," Don said. Placing a hand on his father's elbow, he steered him to a nearby nursing station. "Has anyone told you what's going on?"

Alan shook his head sadly. "They just told me to 'make room' and took him through there." He gestured to an area separated from the main corridor by sliding frosted glass doors. Just then, the doors parted and a harried looking man in green scrubs came out. He stopped for a moment, glancing around, then made his way to the station through various groups of people who were milling around. Reaching the desk, he leaned over and said to the woman standing there, "Eppes?"

Don moved toward the man, holding out his hand. "Don Eppes, and this is my father, Alan."

"Chris Garret," he said, shaking each one by the hand. "I'm the resident on Charlie's case."

"How's he doing?" Don asked.

Garret scratched his head, reminding Don of his brother's friend Larry. "Not too well, I'm afraid. He fell and cracked his head - which isn't serious, by the way. Few stitches there, that's all. As for the other… " He trailed off.

"We think it may have been in something he drank, Doctor," Alan put in. "Can you find out what it is? Maybe give him an antidote or something?"

"We're running tests now," Garret replied. "So far, nothing's conclusive. He was lucid for a while, and he said he'd actually thrown up a few times, which would account for the dehydration." He looked at Don curiously. "You're with the FBI?" he asked.

"Yeah, how did you…?" Don began, but his father interrupted. "I told the paramedic on the ride over, Don."

Garret continued, "So your brother ingested this poison this evening?"

Nodding, Don said, "It was in a cup of tea he drank."

"How do you know this?" the resident asked. "Did you have it tested?"

Don glanced at his father before answering. "It's being tested now. That's why I can't tell you what it was yet. The results haven't come back."

Garret shook his head, clearly puzzled. "How do you know it was _in_ the tea, then?"

Don sighed, bracing himself for his father's response. "The person responsible called me and told me he was going to do something - as payback."

"_What?_" Alan burst out. "Some psychotic animal called you and said he was going to poison your brother to get you back?" Don put his hands up to fend off the verbal assault. "Why didn't you _say_ something? Warn him, at least?"

"Dad! Dad, slow down," Don said, taking a step back. "Just calm down. Don't you think I would have if I'd known about it? The guy only called me after the fact. Charlie had been out of the office for at least three, maybe four hours by then." He placed his hands on Alan's shoulders, looking him directly in the eyes. "Once I figured out he was talking about the tea, I phoned you and headed straight for the house."

Garret interrupted, "I'm sorry, Agent Eppes. Did you say 'once you figured it out'?" Don nodded at him. "What did this person say, exactly?"

Don thought for a moment, recalling the man's exact words. He hesitated before divulging the information, though, as it was part of an ongoing investigation and therefore confidential. Alan saw this on his older son's face and said, in a threatening voice, "Don!"

He gave up. His brother's safety came first. "He told me to have a cup of herbal tea and spend a few minutes with some prayer beads to calm me down."

Garret's face drained of color. "Prayer beads?" he asked. "Are you sure - are you positive - that's what he said?"

"Yeah, why?" Don asked, and Alan said, "What does that mean, Doctor?"

The resident stared at them with a shocked expression on his face. "It's not good, if it means what I think it does. Agent Eppes, is there any chance your office would have those results back by now?"

"I can call now," Don said. "Where are the payphones?"

"You can use the one here," Garret replied. He picked up the phone on the desk and set it on a ledge next to Don, who began dialing.

Alan glanced at the glass doors, then turned to Garret. "Shouldn't you be in there?" he asked.

Shaking his head, he answered, "Not at the moment. He's being monitored and there are three people in there taking care of him. Until we find out what he took, all we can do is keep him hydrated."

"Okay, thanks Colby," Don said and hung up. Turning to Garret, he said, "Our lab says it's something called 'abrin'. Can you get an antidote for that?" Alan turned to the young man hopefully. 

Once more, Garret shook his head. "I was afraid of that, as soon as you said 'prayer beads'."

"What?" Don demanded. "Afraid of what?"

Alan reached for Don's hand, reluctant to hear the doctor's response.

Garret took a deep breath, then guided them to a nearby bench, motioning them to sit. After they complied, he perched on the edge of a handy wooden planter and explained. "Abrin goes by many names, one of which is 'prayer bead'. It's not contagious, but it is a very, very dangerous substance." He paused to let this sink in, then said quietly. "There is no antidote for abrin."

"What happens now?" Don asked in a strangled voice. "Is Charlie going to… " He couldn't finish.

Alan tried. "He's going to make it, though, isn't he?"

The doctor looked at them both steadily for a moment before replying. "Charlie's got a very good chance at surviving this. He's young, healthy and strong. But I won't lie to you," he added. "It's very unusual for abrin to take effect within hours. Usually it takes anywhere from one to three _days_ for the symptoms to show. He must have had a large dose." He looked at Don to see if he could provide any information. Don said, "It was quite a bit, I guess. I don't know how much for sure."

Garret stood, and the other two men followed suit. "The main thing is, we have to make sure he stays hydrated, and monitor him closely for any other symptoms. If anything else shows up, then we'll deal with it aggressively, so all Charlie has to do is get better."

Alan looked at him closely. "What other symptoms are we talking about here?"

"Mr. Eppes," he began, then hesitated. Obviously, he wasn't happy about going into details, but he seemed to come to a decision and continued. "Abrin affects the cardiovascular system, the digestive system, the muscles, the liver, the kidneys - it's an insidious drug. I say 'drug' because it has its uses, too. But mainly it gets into the cells and prevents them from making proteins. If we can get Charlie through the next three or four days, he'll be fine."

Don asked, "Can we see him?"

"Sure," Garret replied, turning toward the sliding doors. "I'll give you a few minutes alone. He's not conscious, but he'll know you're there." He led the two men to the room.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Twenty minutes later, Don emerged from the hospital looking considerably calmer than he felt. He had left his father at Charlie's bedside in the intensive care unit with a vow to return soon. Charlie had been completely out of it, not responding in any way to their repeated pleas to wake up and talk to them. He was still flushed, but his fever had gone down somewhat and his skin was no longer dry.

Taking out his cell phone, Don powered it up and then hit the speed dial for the office.

"Colby?" he said when it was answered. "It's Don. He's… as well as can be expected. They're doing what they can. Listen… I'm all finished here for now, so can you tell Megan to come back and pick me up? I'm going to…" He paused while the other man spoke.

"What do you _mean_, she never came back?"


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I think, by now, most people know the stock disclaimer for these fanfics. They don't belong to me, and quite frankly I wouldn't want them. I had to buy a gross of ice packs yesterday to nurse my various cuts and bruises. Who knew Professor Eppes was so proficient at throwing _calculators_?

Chapter 4:

Don put his hand to his head in an attempt to calm his nerves. "She didn't come back to the office? I told her… Are you sure?" he asked.

Colby replied, "Yeah, Don. I'm sure. Is something wrong?"

"No," Don said, thinking fast. "Listen, I'll call you back, okay? And Colby?"

"Yeah Don?" Colby said.

"No one - and I mean no one – is to leave the office until I get there, is that clear?"

"Sure." Colby's voice was puzzled. "I'll let everyone know."

Don sighed. "Give David a hand going through the files. I'll call you." He disconnected and immediately dialled another number.

"Reeves."

"Megan!" Don let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Where the hell are you?"

"I'm at CalSci." Megan paused, then said, "Oh! I'm sorry, Don! I didn't mean to worry you."

Don didn't answer, fighting the urge to yell at the other agent.

"I found – never mind what I found. I'll tell you later. Did you want me to come pick you up?" she asked.

"Please," Don said.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Megan told him. "And I'll take the direct route."

Don flipped the phone shut and leaned against a nearby divider wall, suddenly exhausted.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don had been driving in silence for quite some time before Megan attempted to make conversation.

"I said I was sorry, Don. It was only forty minutes. What else do you want me to do?"

Don shook his head once, not trusting himself to speak.

Megan sighed. "Do you want to know what I found?"

Glancing out the side window, he finally said, "Yeah."

"Singular monosyllables," she observed. "Progress, anyway." She took out a small notebook and thumbed through until she found the entry she wanted. "That substance didn't come from inside the office. I found traces of a yellowish powder in an envelope on your brother's desk."

Don shifted in his seat. "Abrin."

"I'm sorry?" Megan asked.

"Abrin," Don repeated. "It's called 'abrin', the stuff Charlie drank."

She frowned. "I don't think I've ever heard of it."

"Me neither," Don admitted. "According to the resident on Charlie's case, it's used as a medicine sometimes."

"For what?"

"I don't know." Don sighed. "It's… potent."

Megan looked at him for a long moment before asking quietly, "What are his chances, Don?"

He glanced at her briefly before turning his gaze back to the window. "About fifty-fifty, I guess. Charlie could probably calculate it for you, but…" He let the sentence trail.

Megan looked at her hands folded around the notebook in her lap. "Did they give him something to counteract it?" Don didn't reply. She lifted her gaze to his face, waiting for his response. When none seemed forthcoming, she asked, "There _is_ something they can give him, right?"

Finally, he shook his head. Megan drew her breath in sharply. "There's no antidote?"

In a low voice, he replied, "No. Drop it, Megan."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don and Megan walked into the FBI office to a frenzy of activity. Several agents were poring over folders that seemed to cover every available surface. The center seemed to be a table in the far corner of the room where they could see David and Colby surrounded by mounds of files and telephones. People were going back and forth to the table, answering phones and calling to one another over the general commotion. There was as much activity as if it were the middle of the day, instead of the early hours of the morning. Glancing up, David saw the other two approach and hurriedly concluded his conversation on the phone. He replaced the receiver and then made his way over.

Don asked, "What's going on here, David?"

"We finally got all your old case files," he responded, glancing around at the organized chaos. "I had to call in some extra agents to go through it all." David turned to Don and said, "I don't know how to use that filter thing of Charlie's, and I wasn't sure if I should put a call in to Amita for help, so we're doing it the old-fashioned way."

Don put his hand on David's shoulder in a gesture of gratitude. "Good call, David," he said. "I don't want Larry _or_ Amita called in on this for now. Not until I have a chance to talk to them."

David looked like he was about to speak but at a quick headshake from Megan he kept silent.

Colby called, "Megan! I've got Evidence Recovery on the line for you." He waved a receiver at her. She looked at Don and said, "I called them to Charlie's office. Excuse me." She stepped around him and took the phone from Colby, who proceeded to shuffle through another stack of files.

Watching all the activity, Don said to David, "You've been busy."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged. "When you told Granger nobody was allowed to leave, I had to give them something to do. I figured, why pull my hair out trying to find this guy when I've got all these people standing around?"

Don glanced at the other man's bald head and remarked wryly, "Why indeed?"

David grinned. "Couldn't resist. Sorry."

"Right." Don took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a nearby chair. Turning to face the room, he called, "Listen up, people!" Activity ground to a halt as most of the room's occupants stopped what they were doing. When he was sure he had their attention, Don continued. "There is someone out there who is bent on getting to me for reasons unknown. He has used a difficult to obtain substance to poison one person already, and has said he intends to make me suffer." He paused to let this information sink in. "I do not believe he will go after me, personally, but people I have contact with: friends, family… and coworkers. So from this point forward – no one is to leave this office alone. Do not go anywhere without someone to watch your back. If you have to go somewhere, and it is not possible to take someone with you, let me know and we'll arrange something for you." He looked around to gauge their reactions. "I cannot stress how dangerous this character is. Please. Do not allow yourselves to be caught off guard. Thank you." He turned back to the table. Colby and Megan had both gone back to their phone calls. Only David remained, standing next to him.

"What have you got so far?" Don asked.

"We've managed to eliminate about thirty percent of the files," David began. "But that still leaves an awful lot to go through." He paused, then continued in an undertone. "How's Charlie?"

Don avoided his gaze, watching Colby and Megan discussing something on the far side of the table. "He's doing as well as can be expected," he replied evasively.

David regarded his friend in silence for a moment. "Don?"

Finally Don seemed to deflate a bit, and then looked at him squarely. In a low voice he said, "If Charlie lives through the next few days, he'll recover."

David's eyes widened in shock. "Are you serious?" he asked. At the other man's nod, he said, "What was that stuff?"

"Abrin," Megan said, stepping around David to address Don. "It's a substance most commonly used to treat cancer. It looks like a yellowish powder and comes from India and other tropical areas."

"India's a tropical area?" David asked. Megan glared at him and continued, "It's a phytotoxin, can be inhaled, ingested or injected. Usually takes one to three days for the effects to show."

"You know, Megan," Don interrupted. "I got this from the doctor. He said Charlie must have an unusually large dose for the effects to be seen so fast."

She nodded. "The evidence recovery team I called to Charlie's office took the envelope in. They say it had a large amount of powdered abrin in it."

"What was on the envelope?" David asked.

"It was addressed to 'Professor Eppes' – no return address," she answered.

Don said thoughtfully, "I'll bet it smelled of perfume."

Megan looked at him sharply. "How did you know?"

"Charlie's been getting anonymous love letters," Don replied, seating himself in a nearby chair wearily. "He wouldn't think it strange to get another one. And he would have sniffed it – which would provide another route for the abrin to get into his system." He cradled his head in his hands. "No wonder it hit him so fast. The only thing this psycho didn't do was _inject_ Charlie with it."

Megan and David exchanged glances. When Don finished speaking, Megan said, "Don, you've been working for about twenty-four hours. When are you going to get some sleep?"

He let his hands fall, but didn't raise his head. "I can't – there's too much to do. Too much at stake."

"I have an idea," David offered. "Why don't you go into one of the interview rooms – stretch out in a chair or something. We can let you know when we've gotten this…" He gestured at the stacks of files. "…Narrowed down as far as we can go."

Don stood a little unsteadily and made his way to the interview room without speaking. The other two agents watched as he seated himself in an armchair and put his feet on the table.

Megan turned to David. "We've got to get some answers for him."

"Let's get to work," he replied. They both turned and picked up a handful of manila folders.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don had been dozing for about half an hour when his cell phone rang. He started out of his chair on the first ring, but it wasn't until the third that he finally answered.

"Eppes."

"About time, Agent Eppes," came the low tones of his tormentor. "What were you doing, sleeping?"

Don rubbed the sleep out of eyes viciously and looked out the plate glass window. Both David and Megan were deeply involved in what they were doing and didn't see him. "What do you want?" he growled. He tapped on the glass, and when David looked up, motioned first to his phone and then to the electronics tech, Craig. David nodded and called to the tech, who began typing on his computer.

Don turned away from the glass. "Who are you?" he asked.

"You haven't figured that out yet?" the man said. "I'm extremely disappointed in you, Agent Eppes. You used to be really good at figuring people out. Lost the touch, have you?"

"Quit playing games!" Don fought to regain his composure. "Tell me what you want."

"We've been through this, Agent," the other man said flatly. "What I want is for you to suffer. As for playing games…" He let out an exaggerated sigh. "Does your brother think it's a game, too?"

Don ground his teeth in frustration. There were a million things he wanted to yell at this guy, but to do so would only make matters worse.

"Now then," the man went on. "Just to show you that I can be reasonable, I am going to lay a few ground rules."

Don sat in the chair. Hard. "Ground rules?" He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The voice continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Number one: I never hit the same target twice. Number two: I never hit the same place twice. And number three…" He paused for effect. "You get to pick the next target. Choose carefully, Agent Eppes." The line went dead.

Don stared mutely at the cell phone in his hand. David opened the door and poked his head in. "Don?" He lifted his gaze to the other agent's face.

"We didn't get anything this time either." He waited for a reaction. Don just went back to staring at his phone. David stepped inside and closed the door. Moving to his friend's side, he leaned against the table and folded his arms. "What did he say?" he asked.

Don set the phone on the table and rubbed his face with both hands. Letting them drop, he replied, "I get to pick who's next."

"What?"

"He said there were 'ground rules'. His words, not mine." Don stood and began pacing nervously. Megan came into the room and stood by the open door. Don turned to them and began reciting, ticking each item off on his fingers. "He never hits the same person, he never hits the same place, and I pick who's next." He threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Who the hell _is_ this guy? How do I decide who's next? Do I talk to them? Drive with them? Phone them?" He leaned on the table, energy spent.

Megan moved to his side and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Don, I know this is hard, but you need to get some rest – real rest. Not twenty or thirty minutes in a chair." She looked at David. "We can handle things here. Go home."

Don stood. Looking from one to the other, he asked. "And how do I find out if you have something? If I call, is that marking someone as the next target?"

"I don't know, Don," David replied. "Maybe you shouldn't call."

Megan dropped her hand from his shoulder. "David's right. Don't call. Get some sleep, and just come in. Then there's no way he can know who you're interacting with specifically."

He mulled it over for a minute and then gave in. "All right. It sounds reasonable. And I _am_ tired." He picked his phone up off of the table and clipped it to his belt. Heading for the door, he said, "But I'm going to my apartment, not Charlie's house. He'd never forgive me if…" He stopped, mid-stride. Taking a deep breath, he turned slowly to face the other two. "I'll go home," he said. "Right after I – no. I can't go to the hospital. My father is still there. _Damn_ it!" In his anger, he seized the edge of the door and flung it away from him, causing it to put a doorknob-shaped hole into the paneling behind it. He grabbed it on the back swing to prevent it crashing into him, and stood staring angrily at the floor. Finally, he let go and said quietly, "I'll be at my apartment." He turned and walked out.

David said, "We've got to get this guy. Soon."

"Yeah," Megan agreed, watching Don's departure through the glass. "Don's getting very close to his breaking point."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don stood wearily in the hallway outside his apartment, fumbling for his door key. Finally locating it among the several others on the ring, he fitted it into the lock and opened his front door. He quickly scanned the corridor and then, satisfied he was alone, stepped inside. He stood for a moment in his entranceway after shutting the door and listened for any odd noises.

_Odd noises?_ He berated himself. _Any noise here is odd. You're hardly ever home._ He shook his head and made for the kitchen, tossing his coat on a chair as he passed. A tinkling noise, like that of a music box, caused his heart to leap into his throat. He froze, mid-stride, and listened. The noise seemed to be coming from the bedroom.

Unholstering his pistol, Don slowly made his way to the bedroom and eased the door open. Glancing around, he saw nothing that could be making the tinny music, and allowed his gun hand to point down to the floor. He crept into the room, checking behind the door as he went. A quick look around satisfied him that nothing had been touched, and he moved to the bathroom door and peeked inside.

Nothing.

_Then where the hell…?_ He suddenly realized the tune was coming from the window. He moved to one side of the frame and slipped a finger under the edge of the blind. Easing it away from the glass, he peered through the gap at the fire escape outside. Sitting on one of the metal grille stairs was a small, plain wooden box. The music was definitely coming from there.

Don let the blind fall back into place as he pondered what to do. On the one hand, it was probably a threat – how many people put a music box outside someone's window? But if he called for help, anyone who responded may wind up the next victim. On the other hand, it might not be dangerous at all. Just a sick, twisted way of getting on his nerves. Don rubbed his temple with his free hand, wishing he wasn't so tired and could think clearly.

_Well, you could look at it, just don't touch it,_ he told himself. Nodding, he stepped away from the wall and faced the window, replacing his gun in its holster. He reached for the cord to pull up the blind.

The music stopped.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Numb3rs. The Eppes men have been very quiet for quite some time, and the other characters just sit in the corner, staring off into space. This may be a signal that something is up, or I may need to increase their vitamin intake, I'm not sure which.

Chapter 5:

He was tired. Or fed up. Either way, he didn't move when the tune stopped. He just stood there, rooted to the spot… and waited.

When nothing happened, Don took a deep breath and pulled on the cord. The blinds zoomed upward, half startling him, to expose the window on the other side.

It looked harmless enough. A little wooden box, sitting unobtrusively on the second stair from the landing. He stepped closer to the window and looked beyond the fire escape in an effort to determine if anyone was watching. Satisfied, he pushed the sash up as far as it would go and stuck his head out, twisting to look up the metal staircase. Then he turned and looked down.

Nothing out of the ordinary. He pulled his head back in a stood for a moment trying to gauge what it meant. Finally, he shook his head and reached for the music box. Gently picking it up, he drew it inside and shut the window against the chill breeze. He examined it minutely for evidence but wasn't really surprised when he didn't find any. The wood was rough, unfinished. It wouldn't have held a print anyway. Opening the lid, he peered inside. There was a piece of paper lying on the bottom of the box, folded once. Don took it out carefully and laid it on the bedside table. He scrutinized the interior once more and decided it was empty. Closing the lid, he turned it over. The only thing on the underside was the key to wind the mechanism concealed in the floor of the box.

He was itching to wind it again, to listen to the tune again and see if he could place it. The key was metal, however, and might have something on it. He put it on the bedside table beside the paper and sat on the bed. He stared at the inoffensive scrap for a while before finally reaching for it. Using a fingernail, he unfolded it gingerly.

_Don,_ it read.

_Don't let him catch you._

_This might help._

_S._

_Who the hell is S?_ he thought_. How is this supposed to help me?_

He wracked his brain for a few minutes, but concluded he was just too tired to figure it out. He needed sleep. Don laid back on the pillow on his side, so he could look at the semi-unfolded paper on the tabletop. He felt his eyelids getting heavy, and his last coherent thought was that he should check the roof of his building for any clues.

-x-x-x-x-x-

_He was dancing._

_To be precise, he was ballroom dancing. But his partner had her face turned away from him. The music sounded vaguely like it was coming from a wind-up music box._

_He looked around, but the people standing around the dance floor were blurry, indistinct. The more he tried to focus on them, the fuzzier they became. He tried instead to see the ones sharing the dance area with him. That was much easier. Larry came whirling by, a veritable Fred Astaire with Ginger Rogers in tow. Don assumed the blonde he was with was Lauren. Larry nodded at him once before twirling away, a sombre look on his face. Don got the impression Larry was disappointed in him. Another couple floated into his field of view: Charlie and Amita. Don tried to call out to them, but they didn't even spare him a glance, moving away much as Larry and Lauren had done. He saw other couples, people that seemed familiar, but he couldn't place them until he saw his father gliding by with what looked like the woman from the butcher shop._

"_Dad!" Don called. Alan glanced at his son for a moment and then paused to dip his partner. He looked at Don with a sympathetic expression on his face as he brought her back up. From over her shoulder, Alan called, "You'll remember, Donnie! Just keep dancing!" and they waltzed away._

_Frustration mounting by the second, Don watched as Megan and David whirled past, saying in unison, "Don't call, Don. Just dance." He tried to halt his steps, but his feet seemed to belong to someone else. The music continued to play, and he attempted to concentrate on that instead. The name of the tune eluded him for a while, although it was very familiar. He moved around the floor with his silent partner trying to place the tune, like having a word at the tip of your tongue that you just can't speak. He finally gave up and moved around the room, watching to see if he recognized anyone else._

_Suddenly the title drifted, unbidden, through Don's mind. Chopin's Polonaise. He gasped as the realization hit him, and his dance partner finally lifted her face to his and smiled._

Don sat bolt upright in his bed, drenched in sweat.

-x-x-x-x-x-

After a long, hot shower and a shave, Don sat at his kitchen table and stared at the plate in front of him. He had made bacon and eggs and toast – normally one of his favorites – but now couldn't bring himself to eat it. He pushed the food around on the plate with a corner of toast, thinking.

What did it mean? The music, the dancing, the people – all of it had some significance. If he could only piece it together. And the girl he was dancing with, who was she? Once he woke up, he couldn't remember what her face looked like. Just the smile. So sweet and trusting. Like Charlie's.

He threw the toast onto the plate and pushed his chair back. This was getting him nowhere. He stood and picked up his plate, carrying it to the garbage can. Scraping the food into the bin, he set the dish in the sink and ran water over it, his mind once again drifting back to the visions in his dream. Why couldn't he remember what she looked like? He could recall everything else with perfect clarity.

Don twisted the faucet off savagely and went back to his room to get dressed. He wasn't going to spend one more minute in this apartment driving himself crazy. He resolved to find a way to get into the hospital to visit his brother and father without being followed. There had to be a way.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Easing open the stairwell door, Don peeked into the third floor corridor. Empty. He slid cautiously through the gap and made his way to the nurses' station at the end of the hallway. No one was seated at the desk, but that suited him fine. He already knew where he was going. Intensive Care was down the corridor to the left of the station, and Charlie's room was the second door on the right. Glancing over his shoulder, he turned the corner – and jumped a foot when he almost ran into his own father.

"Dad!"

"Don! What are you doing sneaking around in the hallway?" the older Eppes accused.

Don put a finger to his lips and grabbed Alan's elbow. He looked around once more before guiding him into a nearby lounge. Don's gaze took in the room's only other occupant, a man sound asleep in a recliner, and quickly dismissed him. He steered Alan to an uncomfortable-looking sofa and they both sat facing each other.

Alan asked in a hushed voice, "Donnie, what is going on?"

"I don't know, Dad," Don said. "I took a risk coming here, but I had to see you – see Charlie." Looking around for eavesdroppers, he leaned toward Alan and said quietly, "The guy who did this to Charlie said that I would choose the next victim. I think he's watching me. Trying to see who I talk to next. That's why I sneaked in here." He shook his head. "I had to see how Charlie was doing and how you're holding up, but I couldn't risk a phone call. I don't think I was followed, but…" He let the sentence trail off.

Alan stared at his eldest son's pale face with growing concern. Don looked exhausted and – was he reading that right? – haunted. He stood and walked to the coffee vending machine in the corner. Plugging a few coins in the slot, he selected cream and sugar and waited for the cup to fill. Don joined him, speaking in hushed tones. "Dad, I found a music box outside my bedroom window when I got home." Alan glanced at him, but didn't comment. Don tried again. "It was a little rough wooden box, and it played the 'Polonaise'. I recognized it – I don't know how."

Alan remained silent as he passed a paper cup full of steaming coffee to Don, and then dropped more change in the machine. Don took a sip before continuing. "There was a note inside that read 'Don't let him catch you – this might help' and it was signed 'S'. I have to figure out what it means, but I can't!"

Alan turned to his son, cup in hand, and said, "I can't help you, Don."

Don rolled his eyes in exasperation and turned away from his father. "Dad…"

"No, no. Hear me out on this," Alan interrupted, heading back to the couch. The man in the recliner snorted and rolled his head onto his other shoulder. Both men glanced at him before resuming their seats. Alan took a sip of his drink and gestured for Don to do the same. Satisfied, he continued. "I can't help you figure out who might have it in for you, Don – as much as I'd like to. This part of your life – the whole FBI thing – it's a mystery to me. The best I can do is offer support. But frankly, " he paused to rub a hand over his face. "That won't help you much, either, Donnie. I'm worn out. The past two days have been really hard on me."

Don stared at his father in shock. This confession of weakness was so out of character, he had difficulty grasping the fact that it had really been put into words. His father was always the rock in these situations. The voice of reason and wisdom. Somehow he had gotten the idea that by running the situation by him, the older man would pull a solution out of thin air – something that would, at the very least, point him in the right direction.

Don took a large swallow of coffee and gasped when it burned him. He found the sensation to be something of a relief – a welcome distraction. He turned in his seat so he was sitting squarely on the cushion and leaned back. After a quick glance at their roommate, he closed his eyes. Of course his father couldn't help – his desperate groping for a solution blinded him to that obvious fact. Alan was tired, too, and Don sometimes forgot how much he kept secret from his family.

He finally opened his eyes and sat up. Turning to his father, he said, "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to unload on you. Let's go see Charlie."

The two men finished their drinks and stood. Tossing the empty cups into a nearby trashcan, they left the room and headed across the hall. Alan stopped before entering the room and put his hand on Don's arm.

"He's not doing too good, Don," he warned. "Prepare yourself." Don nodded and pushed open the door.

Charlie lay on his back in the room's only bed surrounded by several pieces of medical equipment. Various tubes and wires were strapped to his brother's body, making him look somewhat like a science experiment. Don halted just inside the doorway, only moving when his father stepped around him and headed for the padded armchair next to the bed. Alan seated himself in the chair wearily and took Charlie's hand in his own. Glancing over his shoulder at Don, he said, "Come closer. Don't worry, you won't wake him."

Don swallowed the lump forming in his throat and took a tentative step toward the bed. Under the muted glow coming from a single bulb over the head of Charlie's bed, his brother looked very pale. His skin seemed almost transparent, the veins underneath showing blue under the alabaster skin. His face had lost its smooth planes and now appeared gaunt, like a starvation victim. His once springy, curly hair now lay in damp tendrils, and his face was bathed in a thin film of sweat. Don stood by the bed with one hand over his mouth, trying to take it all in. He jumped involuntarily when one of the machines beeped and began hissing.

"Automatic blood pressure monitor," Alan said from the other side of the bed. Don looked at him blankly. "It takes his blood pressure every twenty minutes. You get used to it." Don returned his gaze to Charlie. He couldn't get over how much his little brother looked like…

"Dad," he whispered. "Charlie looks the same way mom did – at the end."

Alan didn't reply. Don looked at him, noting the saddened expression on his face. Don moved to stand beside him. "How bad is it?" he asked.

Shaking his head slowly, Alan replied, "They won't say anything definite right now. If he lives past the four- to five-day mark, then he'll make it. Before that…"

Don knelt next to his father's chair and put what he hoped was a comforting arm around the older man's shoulders. Alan cleared his throat before continuing. Gesturing to the various pieces of equipment, he began to recite, "That one is to monitor his heart rate, that one is for his breathing…" For the first time, Don noticed the tube in Charlie's mouth – how did he miss that? "…And that one is for dialysis."

"Dialysis? As in – for kidneys?" Don asked. Alan nodded. "Kidney and liver functions become impaired. The doctor figures if they give him periodic dialysis, it'll take some of the strain off of him – make it easier for him to fight this… poison." Alan turned to him abruptly. "Don," he said firmly. "You can stay for five minutes only."

Don looked at his father, unsure of where this was leading. Alan had every right to be angry with him. It was his fault Charlie was lying in that bed. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

"In five minutes, my son, I want you to get the hell out of here, get your butt back to the office – and _find_ the guy who did this to your brother!"


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: Now that my Numb3rs detainees are looking a little perkier, I should be able to sum this up without too many more distractions and return them to their rightful… what's that scraping noise?

Chapter 6:

His elbow propped on the armrest, chin in hand, Don regarded the wooden box on his desk with a weary gaze. The lab techs had finished with it, stating no useable prints could be recovered from the key on the underside of the box. He didn't know where to go from there.

David, Megan and Colby had gone through every file that Records could come up with. Everyone Don put away, helped put away, testified against and basically crossed paths with since the beginning of his career, and no one fit the description Jimmy gave for the man from the bar.

Don heaved a sigh and switched to his other hand, staring at the music box, although by now he wasn't really seeing it. Rather, he was seeing Charlie as he lay in the hospital bed, surrounded by beeping and flashing machines. He had stayed for the allotted five minutes, hoping for some sign of movement from his brother, but was disappointed. Charlie hadn't shown any indication of regaining consciousness. When the time was up, he had given his father's shoulder a silent squeeze and left, sneaking out the way he had come in an attempt to avoid contact with anyone he might put in danger.

The sound of someone clearing their throat snapped him out of his reverie. Don looked up, surprised to see Charlie's friend and mentor, Larry Fleinhardt, standing by his desk. He immediately sat up straighter in his chair.

"Larry!" he said. "What are you doing here?"

Larry regarded him sadly. "I spoke to your father, and thought I might offer my assistance."

Don paused, then asked quietly. "You've seen him?"

The little professor nodded a few times before replying. "I must say Charles _has_ looked better. However, your father tells me he only has to wait two more days for him to improve."

Don gestured to a nearby chair and Larry pulled it closer to the desk before sitting down. He leaned closer to the other man and said, "Charlie might not…"

Larry waved a hand at Don. "I know what those doctors say – but abrin is an extremely useful pharmaceutical drug. Charles is a healthy, capable young man. I feel certain that he will take this experience – maybe not 'in stride', but he _will_ take it – and rebound from its effects none the worse for wear."

Don regarded him for a full minute before deciding to let the matter drop. Leaning back in his chair, he asked, "So how do you think you can help?"

"Well," Larry began, lacing his fingers together and using both index fingers to point at Don. "You need some assistance in locating the man who is attempting to make your life miserable." Don nodded at this – it was true. They had gotten nowhere so far. "Alan told me you would not call anyone for help, because you are afraid whoever you contacted would be this deranged individual's next target. Correct?" Once again, Don had to agree. "Therefore, it naturally follows: you need help, I want to help, you cannot come to me, so I come to you." Larry unlaced his fingers and gestured at the room in general. "And here I am."

Don found himself smiling. This strange little physics professor with the quirky mannerisms just had a way of making him feel better. He said, "I'm glad you're here, Larry. We're at a dead end as far as suspects go." He pointed. "The only evidence we have is an envelope from Charlie's office, and that music box. I found it on my fire escape yesterday."

"May I?" Larry asked. At Don's nod, he picked up the box and examined it, inside and out. Then he turned it over, gave the key a short twist and listened intently as a few bars of Chopin issued forth.

"The Polonaise," Don said.

Larry nodded and waited for the tune to trail off. "Also known as 'Till The End of Time'. A lovely piece. I prefer Strauss, myself." He opened the lid and looked inside, tilting the box first one way and then the other.

"What are you doing, Larry?"

The professor allowed the lid to drop. "I find these trinkets fascinating. It always intrigues me, the things people can put together if they have a mind to – beautiful things. Not always destructive…" He trailed away upon seeing Don's wide-eyed look. "What? What did I say?"

Don reached out and grabbed the box from Larry. "Professor Fleinhardt, has anyone ever told you you're a genius?" He stood and quickly walked away from the desk. Larry watched him for a moment before replying, "Well, actually, there _was_ this avionics engineer in Phoenix, once…"

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Report from the lab, Don," David strode toward the command center, waving a file folder. "There were two whole prints on the works inside that music box. They belong to a Gerry Marshall." He handed the folder over. Don spread it open on the tabletop so everyone gathered around could see it. Megan read over his shoulder, "Convicted of grand larceny and tax fraud. Probably made the music box in the prison woodworking shop. This guy couldn't have sent the poison to Charlie. Not unless his character has undergone a drastic change." Don glanced up at her and then resumed reading. David added, "And come back from the dead." This last statement got everyone's attention. Larry wandered over from the lunchroom, coffee cup in hand. David continued, "Marshall died in prison last week. Pneumonia."

Megan exchanged a look with Don before asking, "Does he have a brother?"

"No, but he _did_ have a wife," David answered. "Theresa Marshall." He began flipping through a stack of folders. "Her file's in here, too."

Don gazed off into the distance, thinking. "Theresa Marshall… Theresa… that sounds so familiar. How do I…" Suddenly, the image of a woman dancing in his arms floated unbidden into his head. He stood abruptly, causing Larry to jump and spill his coffee. "Not Theresa!" he exclaimed. "Sandra! Sandra Burgess!"

"Don," Megan said, truly puzzled. "What in the world are you talking about?"

Don looked at her excitedly. "Gerry Marshall was into grand larceny big time," he said. "We couldn't get enough to pin on him, so we went to his ex-wife. She gave us everything we needed to nail Marshall and put him away for a long time. He swore he'd get her for it, so we put her in Witness Protection. Her name was changed to Sandra Burgess!"

"Ah, the mysterious 'S'," Megan said. David triumphantly pulled a folder out from the stack. "Theresa Marshall," he read. "Born Theresa McShea." After a moment, he indicated a spot on the page he was looking at. "Has one sibling – a brother."

Colby put in, "McShea – as in William McShea of McShea Holdings?" David nodded. Colby said to Don, "I was reading about this guy – there's an ongoing investigation of his holding company. He's into importing and exporting black market goods."

Megan said, "Don, that could explain the abrin."

"Colby, see if you can get hold of the people on McShea's case. Megan," Don said. Megan looked at him. "See if you can get a picture of McShea. And if she can, David," he pointed to the other agent. "Take it to Jimmy and see if he recognizes him." David nodded.

Each FBI agent departed for his or her various duties, and Larry approached Don, wiping absentmindedly at his shirt with a napkin. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Don looked at the physicist blankly for a moment before replying. "I – I don't…"

"Don!" David called. "Your dad's on line two."

Don looked at Larry. "Would you talk to him, Larry? I don't want to…" Larry flapped the hand with the napkin. "I understand," he said. Don handed him a receiver, and when Larry nodded, hit the appropriate button on the phone.

"Hello, Alan? This is Larry," he said. After a moment's pause, he continued. "Don is right here, but naturally he is reluctant to speak to you, for fear his nemesis will find out…" Larry listened for a moment and then said "Hold on." He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Your father wants to know if you remember the man in the recliner?" Don nodded, realization dawning on his face. He took a step back and sat on the edge of the table.

Larry said into the phone, "He says he does." He gasped as Alan spoke, and said "Oh my. Oh, that's not good news."

Don whispered, "Larry, what is it?" Larry covered the mouthpiece again. "Apparently the 'man in the recliner' – whoever that is – was found in said chair this morning – deceased!"

Don covered his open mouth with his hand. "How?" he asked. Larry didn't respond. He was back to listening on the phone. After a few seconds he said to Don, "They don't know – apparently he was otherwise healthy." He nodded twice and said, "I see." After another short pause he concluded, "All right, then, I'll talk to you later. Good bye." He handed the receiver back to Don, who replaced it on the base. "Your father said to tell you Charles is doing better today, although he hasn't woken yet."

"Okay," said Don. "Thanks, Larry."

Larry replied, "No problem, no problem. I told you he would pull through this."

"Larry, he's not out of it yet."

"Perhaps not," Larry said. "But the odds _are_ in your brother's favor, you know."

"Right," Don said. "Somehow, Larry, coming from you – I believe it."

David walked up. "I have the picture of McShea, Don." He flipped open the folder and handed it to him. Don stared at the picture for a moment and then closed the folder. Handing it back, he said, "Well, that's a dead end, then."

"What?" Larry asked. "What's wrong?"

David answered, "McShea is a small man with balding red hair and brown eyes." At Larry's puzzled look, he added, "The man we're looking for is big with blond hair and blue eyes."

"Accomplice?" Larry asked.

"Maybe," Don conceded. "David, see if you can find the handler in Theresa's WP file." The other man nodded and left. Don ran a weary hand over his face a couple of times and then stood. "I need some more coffee." He had just turned toward the kitchenette, when the cell phone at his waist rang. He paused in mid-stride and unclipped it from his belt. Staring at the display for a moment, he called out, "Trace!" before flipping it open. The tech on the other side of the room was already hard at work.

"Eppes," Don said.

"Poor choice, Agent," came the now-familiar voice. "A sleeping target is much too easy."

"You're sick," Don said angrily. "These are _people_ whose lives you're playing with. Not 'targets'."

The low voice chuckled mirthlessly. "You think so? And the people _you_ interact with? What are they? Cases?"

Don exploded. "Don't even _think_ of comparing yourself to me. You're twisted and evil – and we're closing in on you as we speak."

"Really?" the other man drawled. "Going to grab me yourself, Agent Eppes?"

"Absolutely," Don said with quiet conviction. "Just sit right there, and I'll come and get you."

The phone's small speaker rang with laughter. "You have no idea who you're dealing with, Agent!"

"On the contrary," replied Don. "I know precisely who I'm dealing with, _McShea_."

The line was briefly silent before the caller disconnected. Don snapped the phone shut and looked at Larry, who was scratching his head uncomfortably.

"Don," he said slowly. "I'm not so sure that was wise."


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't have time for a proper disclaimer. I have to affect repairs to what was once a fairly sturdy brick wall. I have no affiliation with Numb3rs. I will put them back, I promise.

Chapter 7:

"Don, we've got the address for McShea's holding company," David called from his desk. "You want him picked up?"

Don Eppes grabbed his sport coat from where it was draped over the back of his chair and replied, "I'll get him myself. Colby, you're with me." The younger agent quickly joined him. To David, he said, "Search employee records for McShea's company. See if anyone meets the description of the guy Jimmy saw." David nodded.

Megan asked, "And me?"

"Check with immigration," Don answered. "See if he applied for a working visa for someone."

"You're thinking imported talent?"

Don nodded. "It's the only thing I can come up with." He looked over Megan's shoulder at Larry. The cosmologist was sitting at the command center table, slowly and methodically making a rubber-band ball. "Brainstorm with the professor over there," he added.

Megan glanced back at Larry and then asked in a low voice, "Professor Fleinhardt? You want me to go over the case with _him_?"

Don lowered his tone as well. "Humor me, Reeves. He's pretty good at that sort of thing. Comes up with ideas that don't occur to most people." He turned from her, and he and Granger left the room.

Megan stared after them until they stepped onto the elevator, then turned to Larry. "Professor?" she asked, making her way to where he was sitting.

Larry looked up briefly before resuming his rubber band wrapping. "Hmm?"

"How do _you_ think a person would go about bringing in someone they've hired for criminal purposes?"

The ball was abruptly forgotten.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don and Colby had made their way through McShea's offices without incident, handcuffed him and brought him back to the FBI building. There had been no sign of a large blond man. Sitting in the interrogation room alone, McShea had a smug, self-satisfied look on his face. Colby, Don and David watched on the monitor as the small man primly picked invisible specks of dust from his pants, crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. Don asked "Well?" to no one in particular.

David began, "He hasn't asked for a lawyer."

"He hasn't said anything," Don reminded him.

Colby tried. "He hasn't fought us at all. We searched his office – there wasn't anything incriminating there."

"What about the warrant for his house?" asked Don.

"We executed the warrant half an hour ago," David ventured. "Preliminary reports say there's nothing there either."

"Phone records?"

"We haven't got them yet, but they're in the works." David let out a sigh. "The guy looks clean, Don."

Don's eyes never left the monitor. "He's been at this game for a long time. Probably for years. He knows how to hide his tracks." He scrubbed both hands through his short hair in a gesture of frustration. "There _has_ to be a way to get to him!"

"You'd have to have some sort of leverage…" Colby began.

Don turned to him abruptly. "We do."

Colby and David exchanged puzzled looks as Don turned and headed for the table with the stacks of files on it. Following, they heard him ask the agent seated there if they had managed to find out who was handling Sandra Burgess' relocation program. The young woman handed him a folder, which he quickly scanned before turning back to them.

"I want you to talk to this agent, Granger," he said, handing him the file. "Find out where she is, and see if contact is possible." Colby took the folder and headed for his desk.

David asked, "What are you going to do?"

Don looked at him for a moment before replying. "I am going to talk to McShea. I'm going to make him tell me where to find this hit man of his." He strode toward the interrogation room, David close behind.

Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, Don turned to David and said, "Follow my lead on this, okay?"

David nodded once and they entered the room.

-x-x-x-x-x-

Alan was dozing lightly in the chair when he felt, rather than heard, his son move. He quickly roused himself and sat up, searching Charlie's face for any sign of consciousness.

"Charlie?" he called quietly. He waited for a response.

The young genius moved his head a bit, but didn't open his eyes. Alan tried again. "Charlie, son, if you can hear me – if you're awake – look at me." He watched Charlie as he struggled to wake. After a few seconds, the dark brown lashes parted slightly and Alan could see his son attempting to process what he was seeing through half closed lids.

"Charlie," he said, leaning closer. "It's me… Dad. You're in the hospital." He watched his son's eyes drift closed. "No! No, Charlie. Wake up. Talk to me."

After what seemed like a lifetime, Charlie once again opened his eyes. Alan slipped his hand through the rail on the side of the bed and took Charlie's right hand in his own. With his left, he slowly reached up and pushed the call button next to the bed. "That's it, Charlie," he soothed. "If you can hear me, son, squeeze my hand." He felt gentle pressure around his fingers. Alan glanced up at the nurse who had soundlessly entered the room and nodded at her. She turned and hurried back out. Alan looked at Charlie, who was once again allowing his eyes to drift shut.

"Come on, Charlie," he coaxed. "Stay with me. I haven't been able to talk to you for days." At this statement, the younger man inclined his head on the pillow and looked at him drowsily. Alan shifted his grip so he no longer had his arm threaded through the railing.

Alan grinned. "Atta boy, Charlie. Stay with me." He glanced briefly over his shoulder as the nurse re-entered with Charlie's doctor close behind. The two of them approached the bed. Alan stood and moved aside to give them room, but didn't release his hold on Charlie's hand. "Your doctor's here, Charlie. They need to check you out." At a glimmer of fear in Charlie's eyes, he quickly added, "But I'll be right here, son. I'm not going anywhere." The look of panic subsided, and Alan said again, "I'll be right here."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Don and David stepped into the interrogation room and closed the door. McShea looked up disinterestedly. Exchanging a look that said 'Here we go', the two agents took seats on either side of the little man, so he would be unable to look at both agents simultaneously. McShea began studiously inspecting his nails.

Both agents sat silently at the table, fingers laced together on the tabletop, and waited.

Several uncomfortable minutes passed. Neither Don nor David spoke a word, watching McShea go over his perfectly manicured hands with intense scrutiny. When he seemed satisfied, he laced his fingers together and rested them on his knees. Gazing at a point somewhere over the two-way mirror in the wall, he said, "How's your brother the professor?"

Don replied slowly, "He's fine. Why do you ask?"

McShea went back to his fingernails. He shrugged. "I heard he wasn't feeling too good lately."

"I'm sure you did," David put in. "And you wouldn't happen to know why, would you?"

"Of course I would," McShea answered. "He had himself a nasty dose of poison."

Don glanced at David, who sent him a surprised look. They hadn't expected this. McShea should have been protesting his detainment and denying involvement in anything even remotely criminal. Carefully, Don said, "How would you know that unless you had something to do with it?"

The other man grinned suddenly and turned in his chair to face Don. "Don't play games, Agent Eppes. I could care less. You know I'm responsible, you just can't prove it. And even if you could," he leaned back in his chair. "What can you do about it?"

"How about attempted murder and conspiracy?" David asked. "How about a little terrorism charge to settle you comfortably onto a gurney while they give you the needle?"

McShea laughed. The sound grated on the agents' already thin patience. Don leaned in closer to the little man and said in a low voice, "How about you point us to the guy you brought in for this?"

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked, wiping at his eyes. "It gives me great pleasure to see you in misery, Agent Eppes."

Don glanced at David before continuing over the sound of McShea's chuckling, "Because if you don't, you'll never talk to Theresa again."

The laughter abruptly halted, and McShea regarded him warily. "What are you proposing, Eppes?" he asked.

Don leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. After a long pause, he finally answered, "I want this guy. Naturally, I want this whole experience over with. You give me what I want," he leaned in and rested his arms on the table. "I _might_ let you talk to your sister."

"You can't," McShea argued. "You're a federal agent. She's under your protection."

Don just regarded him silently. McShea looked from him to David, and back again. The silence was oppressive. Finally, he seemed to mentally compose himself and went back to scrutinizing his manicure. "You're bluffing," he said.

Don shrugged his shoulders indifferently. Getting up, he indicated to David to do so as well. As the two men headed for the door, Don casually called back, "Am I? Think about it." He closed the door after him.

Outside the interrogation room, David rounded on him. "Don, what are you doing? You know we can't let him have contact with a protected witness!"

Don ran his hands through his hair. "I just want him off balance, David. Maybe he'll slip up somewhere. He's pretty slick."

"Still," David said, somewhat mollified. "You can't just go and tell him that, Don. You don't want to give him anything his lawyer might be able to use to get him off. Manipulation is usually considered lying."

Don regarded his friend for a long moment before confessing, "David, I'm getting desperate. I can't do this any more."

"Can't do what?" Megan asked as she walked up.

Don shook his head. David answered for him. "Living in constant fear of this mystery man – the one McShea hired. Anybody Don interacts with is a potential target."

"Speaking of which," Megan said. "We've managed to come up with a few very interesting theories on…"

Don interrupted. "Where's Larry?"

Megan glanced over her shoulder. "He _was_ right there."

Don pushed past her to the desk where Megan and the physicist had been working. Not seeing him, he turned to another agent seated nearby. "Did you see where Professor Fleinhardt went, Jen?"

"I think he left, Don," she replied. "He picked up his coat and went out to the elevators."

Don's face drained of color. Turning to David and Megan, he said, "Didn't anyone tell him to stay put?"

"Why?" Megan asked. At Don's incredulous look, she realized the significance. "Oh my – he'll be a target, too!"

Don turned and raced out of the office, Megan and David on his heels. He glanced at the floor indicator above the elevator doors and, noting the car was still on its way down, headed for the stairwell.

Bursting into the lobby, he saw the polished silver doors sliding shut. Don made for the main doors at a dead run, searching for Larry's small figure as he went. He caught a glimpse of the shuffling figure heading for the parking lot and yelled "Larry!" before running to catch up. The professor turned at the sound of his voice and regarded him with a curious expression. Don gestured at him wildly. "Larry! Get down!"

"What is it?" Larry called back. Don screamed at him again, "Get down, Larry! Get down!" Behind him, he heard David yelling the same thing. "Professor Fleinhardt, get down!"

Just then, Don felt something slam into his back, and searing heat. White-hot pain spread rapidly through his body as he fell. He thought he heard Megan scream, but he didn't have time to decide if he'd imagined it before he lost consciousness.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Numb3rs, no matter how much I may wish otherwise. The characters are on their way back from whence they came. Thank you for the loan.

Retribution (Final)

Quiet.

That was the first thing that registered as he made the slow climb to consciousness. There was an almost funereal hush around him. No voices, no footsteps, no traffic.

_Okay, so I'm not outside_, he thought. He strained his hearing to determine where he was. As if someone turned up the volume, different noises began to surface. Soft conversation, something mechanical making a rhythmic whirring…

The second thing was _pain_.

-x-x-x-x-x-

David Sinclair slammed his hands onto the tabletop, making the small man jump. He noted, with some satisfaction, small droplets of sweat had trickled down McShea's temple and soaked his perfectly pressed shirt collar.

"Where do we find this guy!" he all but yelled.

McShea swallowed visibly, but remained silent. David glanced at Colby, seated across the table, before standing and moving away.

Colby said, "You have any idea how much trouble you're in here? This guy you brought in to play your little game just shot at a federal agent! That's going to guarantee you the death sentence!" He paused to let this sink in, then continued: "A judge might actually go a bit easier on you if you just tell us where to find him!"

McShea mumbled something neither man caught. David turned on him again.

"Speak up! We're done playing games with you, man!"

"I… I don't know where to find him…" McShea's voice trailed off weakly.

David stormed out of the room in frustration.

Megan met him just outside the door. "Anything?" she asked.

Shaking his head, he answered. "The guy's a wimp. He brought in a wild animal and let it loose. It's going to be up to us to find him." David sighed. "He didn't even get the guy's name – just a phone number, and that's disconnected."

"We may have something," Megan said, gesturing for him to follow. They walked over to the command center. Picking up a folder, she handed it to him. "McShea's got several import and export businesses, all serviced by the same courier company. We did a little checking with them," she paused as David began to scan the file. Pointing to a particular column, she said, "Over the past two to three years, McShea's businesses have been receiving fairly regular deliveries – picked up from Customs at the docks and taken to each location."

"Yeah," David replied. "I can see that."

"Right," Megan agreed. "But here," she pointed, "McShea's shop on San Vicente received an unusually large shipment. The bill of lading says 'five- by four- by eight-foot crate' with an Indian elephant statue inside." David looked up at her. "Want to go see if they actually have a five foot Indian elephant statue?" she asked.

David snapped the folder shut and threw it on the table. Heading for his desk to grab his jacket, he answered, "I'll bet they don't."

-x-x-x-x-x-

After several wasted minutes with an innocent salesman at the San Vicente location, David rejoined Megan at the front of the shop.

"Okay," he said. "We get to go check out the store room."

Megan glanced over David's shoulder at the nervous looking clerk. "I'm surprised you didn't get the song and dance about asking his boss for permission."

"I don't think it occurred to him," David replied in a tone low enough not to carry. The two agents made their way through an unmarked door to a large storage area. Threading amongst numerous crates and cartons of varying dimensions, they searched for the oversized box. Suddenly Megan called, "Over here, David! I've got it."

Agent Sinclair joined her in a darkened corner of the storeroom. In front of them stood a wooden crate large enough to house a walk-in freezer. At first glance, it appeared unopened. Upon closer inspection, however, one could see that the end of the crate nearest the wall had been breached and resealed. David and Megan exchanged glances.

"What do you think?" David asked.

Megan shrugged. "Let's find out."

Together they found pry bars and opened the crate. It was empty.

-x-x-x-x-x-

"Mr. Eppes," the doctor tried for the third time. "You must lie still!"

Don gritted his teeth against the curses that threatened to make themselves heard. He had been trying for the last ten minutes to get out of his bed, to the consternation of the attending physician.

"Don!" Alan said as he entered the room. "What are you doing?" The resident heaved a sigh of relief.

Don laid his head on the pillow, a fine sheen of perspiration on his face. "I am _trying_ to get out of here!" he growled.

The doctor motioned to a loaded tray nearby. "And if you don't stop, I'll be forced to sedate you and put you in restraints!"

"Let me speak to him, Doctor," Alan said soothingly. "I'll see to it he stays in bed." The physician nodded and left the room. Turning to his oldest son, Alan demanded, "Just what the heck do you think you're doing?" Don glared at the ceiling in silence. Stepping closer to the bed, Alan tried another approach. "Don… Donnie," he began. Don's gaze flashed on him for a second before returning to the ceiling, but some of the anger was gone. "You've been hurt, Don. Your back is severely bruised. You need to relax and let it heal up." He risked putting his hand on Don's arm. When he didn't pull away, Alan rubbed softly. "You know what they said, Donnie – there's a lot of swelling. If you don't rest, you could wind up with even more damage." He pulled his hand back. "I realize you probably don't want to hear this, Don, but when I think of what could've happened if you hadn't been wearing that body armor…"

Don turned his head to look at his father. Alan had moved away from the bed and was pulling up a chair, deliberately looking away from Don. Sensing that Alan wouldn't want him staring just now, Don resumed staring upwards. "Dad…" he protested.

"I know, I know," Alan admitted. "You and I have picked at this subject before. It still doesn't change the way I feel."

Don swallowed. He didn't want to talk about this. Especially not now. "How's Charlie doing?" he asked.

Alan sighed. "He's getting better. He asked about you."

"He did?" Don turned too quickly. A sharp twinge warned him against doing it again. "What did you tell him?"

"He _didn't_ tell me you'd gone and gotten yourself shot at – _again_," Charlie said from the doorway. Both Don and Alan looked over. Charlie entered the room in a wheelchair, pushed by Larry.

"Hey, Charlie!" Don called, a broad grin on his face. "How're you doing?"

Alan added, "A better question might be '_what_ are you doing?' I thought you were supposed to be in bed?"

Larry declared defensively, "I attempted to persuade my esteemed colleague to remain in his room, in his bed, to better facilitate the healing process. Unfortunately," he continued as he rolled Charlie to a stop next to his father. "I'm afraid my negotiations fell upon deaf ears."

Charlie glanced up at his friend. "Oh stop it, Larry. You wanted to see Don as much as I did." He turned to his brother. "Never mind me," he said. "How are _you_ doing?"

Don had been attempting to sit up in bed, but at a stern glance from Alan resigned himself to putting one hand behind his head instead. "I'm good," he replied.

Alan snorted. "You two regularly lie to one another?" he asked.

Both Charlie and Don had the grace to look sheepish at that. Larry asked, "I hope that your recent adventures won't leave any permanent damage, Don?"

"Just bruised is all, Larry. Thanks for asking."

A knock was heard at the door. Everyone turned to see Megan and David standing in the doorway. "Hey," Megan said. "Can we join in?"

Alan waved them in. "Looks like we're having a party in here."

"We'll try to keep it down so we don't get kicked out," David smiled. "How are you doing, Don?"

"You might as well stop asking him that," Alan cut in before Don could reply. "He's been asked several times already and he hasn't told the truth yet!"

Don glanced at his father briefly before asking, "Did you find him?" Megan and David exchanged looks. "It looks like he's gone," Megan confessed.

David added, "He got out as slick as he came in. We can't find a trace of him other than records of a large crate being shipped to Columbia this morning."

Alan asked, "A large crate?"

Megan nodded. "That's how he got in, we figure." Turning to Don, she said, "It's probably how he got out. There's no record of a crate that size going through Customs, but it's on the shipping bill."

Don was silent for a moment. He cleared his throat once, then asked, "And McShea?"

"We've got him for conspiracy, attempted murder, terrorism…" David answered. "He's in for the long haul, if not worse."

Don nodded but didn't reply. He laid quietly, one arm behind his head, staring out of the window.

After an uncomfortable pause, Alan stood and said, "Charlie, you need to get back to your room." He motioned to Larry to turn the chair, and Charlie said, "I'll see you later, Don." Don remained silent. Megan looked at David and said, "You know, David, we should get back to the paperwork."

"See you later Don," David said. Megan echoed him, and they left.

Don remained in the same position for a long time after the room emptied out. He knew he should have acknowledged everyone's departures, but he didn't care. The idea that some cold, methodical monster could just waltz in and out of the country at whim shook him up. He had thought that possibility had been almost eliminated by the NSA.

A nurse walked in, envelope in hand. "Mr. Eppes?" she ventured. Don finally moved. She handed him the envelope and said, "It was left on the duty desk. I'm sorry, but no one noticed who brought it."

Don took it carefully, unsure if it concealed a hidden threat. After the nurse departed, he examined the envelope. It didn't seem dangerous, and the name on the outside was written in what appeared to be a woman's handwriting. Don shrugged mentally and opened it.

_Don,_ it read.

_I'm glad you're okay._

_I'm grateful to you._

_If Will gets what's coming to him,_

_I'll buy you dinner._

_In person – no more hiding._

S 

He smiled.


End file.
